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However table etiquette was easily acquired. Many a nouveau riche could attest to that.   
    Sara surprised herself yet again by finishing off the glutton-sized quantity of food on her plate. Perhaps her large appetite had been due to the complete absence of conversation during the meal. 
    "Do you shop at Glymeer? The grocer there is very good," she asked.  
    "Never," replied Gillane "I prefer Goldarn. It’s shall we say, somewhat less personal." 
    "That's the disadvantage of living in a small village, isn't it? Where everyone knows your every move?" 
    Gillane did not reply. 
    "What are you doing this afternoon Sara?" 
    "I..I don't know...." 
    "I'll be coming around if that's all right with you. There are a few things in the cellar that I'd like to take away. Will you be at Downswold at say, five o'clock?" 
    "Yes of course."  
    The meal over, Gillane was ready to go. He got up to pay the bill then walked back briskly towards the table, pushing his wallet into his jacket. 
    "I'm sorry, Sara. I must go." 
    "Thank you for lunch." 
    "I'll see you later this evening. Shall I walk you back to your car?" 
    "No, thank you. I'm sure I'll find my way back." 
    Gillane shook her hand then left, disappearing out onto the street. 
    Sara walked back to her car at a leisurely pace. Gillane had remained an enigma throughout the meal. He had chosen his words carefully, declining to reveal anything, saying nothing.  
    She recalled the enigmatic few words which he had uttered, probably, in spite of himself: 
    "I needed a change. The opportunity came along and I took it." 
    A change from what? What opportunity?   Most people relish a chance to talk about themselves, usually, ad nauseum. Gillane was different. Supremely confident. Not suffering from the inadequacy which most of humanity secretly harbours.
     
     
     
     

Chapter Six. 
    As Sara entered Downswold, the air in the cottage was thick with the perfume of flowers. 
    "Silly girl, you didn't even thank the man for his flowers!" she thought out loud. 
    Of course not. The day she had found the vase of flowers outside waiting to greet her, she had brought them in and deposited them absentmindedly on the nearest object she could find. Now, with all the windows shut tightly, the atmosphere was stifling.  
    Sara walked through the cottage pushing open the windows to let out the cloying scent.  
    It was only a few years ago that Sara had started buying flowers. She'd always thought it cruel, the act of growing flowers for profits, the ruthless cutting of the delicate stems, depriving the plant of ever coming to seed. She found it difficult to rationalise why anyone would buy flowers only to watch them shrivel and die. It seemed pointless and selfish. 
    Occasionally, though, she would succumb to stopping  in to the florist, just to have a look. She could see how the luxuriant, long stemmed anthuriums from the tropics, with their perfectly formed waxy petals, could easily transform the drabbest room. But Sara always reached the same conclusion: no matter how beautiful, flowers were not a necessity and did not add value to her life. 
    The Maestro changed all that. It was not unusual for him to spend £2000 per month on flowers. His was a penchant for extra large bouquets and he insisted that his house be full of them. 
    Sara took charge of ordering flowers for the Maestro. Soon she began to appreciate them not just for their ephemeral beauty but also for the way they made her feel. They lightened her mood, they made her house feel like a home. 
    Sara glanced at her watch. Four o'clock. It was still warm and bright outside. She slipped off her shoes and decided to stretch out on the bench to do some reading. 
    The current issue of Good Housekeeping proved to be fascinating stuff - everything from the latest fashion, creative interior design, how to plan a party for one hundred guests and a fool-proof recipe for chocolate cake.  
    Somewhere between adding the